


The Upswing

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [31]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Admiration, Alternate Universe - Canon, Anxiety, Courtship, F/M, Fear, Friendship, Gen, Love, Mentors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3489983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia and Renji train for the inevitable battle against Aizen. Byakuya tries his hand at political maneuvering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Upswing

Metal clashing against metal breaks the silence, as dark and heavy as the shades of a cresting nightfall.

The echoes of steel radiate up Rukia's arm until she swears she can feel her Zanpakutō's battle cry in her  _bones_. The duet is strangely sweet in its pitch, even sweeter in its tempo.

Adrenalin rushes through her, soaking her nerves until they  _hum_ , keeping time with the particles vibrating in the air. Briefly, Rukia wonders if there is a heat storm overhead. Sparks of electricity whip at her, and the air has gone damp and thick; it drapes around her like a wet blanket, one that she cannot shake.

She waits for the thunderclap. Prepares herself for the roar, for the sound wave, for her loudest of emotions.

It never comes, and she isn't foolish enough to shake her focus.

He changes the song's beat with a step.

 _Slow, quick, quick, quick, slow_  soon becomes  _lightning fast._

The upswing has been her bitter foe since she began training with Brother. He lulls her into a complacency, makes her feel like maybe—just maybe—she  _has improved_ , only to bring her soaring hopes crashing back down to earth.

Perhaps she should be flattered that he even  _tries_. Perhaps she should find some satisfaction that Brother has made their bouts more challenging. She's doing better. Maybe even  _well_  for someone of her rank, a junior vice captain.

Brother never indicates whether she is progressing as fast as he hopes. He never says a word about it. Not that she expects it. Brother is encouraging when she does well, and he is candid when she fails.

Rukia swings wildly in front of her. He is pressing her too hard, too fast. His movements nearly go undetected, and her wits are quickly splintering. It takes  _so much_  out of her, physically, mentally, emotionally.

Her movements grow erratic. Maneuvers that she once could have made with perfect timing and flourish become sloppy in their execution. A small tremor in her dominant arm belies her exhaustion. Muscle fibers burn under her flesh with each exertion.

She doesn't know how much longer she can last without crashing.

When Brother launches a wave of cherry blossoms at her, she barely blocks them with ice. She keeps the white, biting petals back for approximately four seconds. Four pitiful seconds are all it takes for him to overtake her, to break through her defense, exploiting holes that become more attenuated with each passing second.

 _It is what Brother is good at, after all_ , Rukia thinks to herself as she feels her power bend against his reiatsu.

Brother may not be the strongest captain physically or spiritually. (The Kenpachi and the Captain-Commander take those respective awards.) Brother may not be the fastest, either (that distinction would go to the Second's captain), or the  _nicest_  (Captain Ukitake, obviously). But, he may be the most cunning. Indeed, Brother possesses a complicated mind, full of riddles, always working, always processing.

Down, down, down.

Rukia hits the ground hard, like hail from on high. Her lungs expel all the air from her chest, and she writhes in a breathless moment. Her eyes snap open.

Ah, painful confirmation.

In an instant, Rukia goes from flying high to face-to-face with the dust on the floor.

Slowly, gracefully, Brother nears her. A slight "clink" and his sword is at his side, sheathed but always willing.

"You performed admirably." His soft baritone breezes over her. So light, so gentle, she can hardly hear it.

She knows he is there, staring down at her. She can feel the burn of eyes against her, heating her skin through her Shihakushō, damp from sweat. It takes  _courage_ , she admits. It takes every ounce of courage that she possesses just to lift her head and meet his gaze.

He waits, patiently, at her side. He does not offer her assistance. No. He allows her that much. She is a prideful woman, after all. Perhaps every bit as prideful as her brother. At times, Rukia wonders if Hisana is really her kin. Brother and she seemly share a chill and pride that her sister simply does not seem to possess. Maybe Brother and she are not connected by the line of blood, but, sometimes, he seems to be the more familiar sibling.

Carefully, she stands, worried that her legs have turned to jelly. Once she feels solidly rooted to the ground, she brushes the grass and flecks of leaves from her black garments. Her cheeks sting. Her heart beats intermittently, hard stops and even harder starts. Her eyes are glued to her feet.

She is embarrassed beyond words. Yet, Brother does not seem upset with her performance. In fact, if his reiatsu is any indication, he appears to be at peace. Sweet tranquility, however, fails to touch her heart.

"Forgive me, Brother," she requests, hoping he will understand her meaning.

What she wants to say—what she hasn't the words to speak—is that she is  _sorry_  for being such a burden. She is sorry for the havoc that she has wrought on their family. She is sorry for Kaien, Aizen, and for anything else that may usher in the chill of shame or the heated indignation of scandal.

Byakuya gives her a disapproving side-eye, but his glance does not deter her. She continues, feeling the words well up inside her like floodwater about to breach a dam.

"He will come," she speaks the words, but barely. Her chin pulls toward her neck. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her fingers curl into balls at her side, nails digging into the black silk of her hakama. There is so much she wants to express, but she just  _can't_. She merely hopes that Brother will understand.

He pauses, mid-step. The fall of his white robe goes still. He lifts his head.

Silence.

Silence steals her breath, locks her muscles, and brings her chaos. A disquiet born in the absence of words, of noise, weighs on her. It splits her resolve. She can almost hear her nerves tear apart; it is the faint sound of popping, keeping time with her pulse.

"He will come." Brother's voice is low and darker than the twilight that hangs over them.

"For me." She can't stop the words; they just fall out of her mouth.

"For you."

Two words unleash a wave of dread. The terror rips through her, shredding what little semblance of poise that she has managed to keep. She is a spinning, sputtering, right mess.

_What do I do?_

The words never come. They should, she tells herself. Brother would offer her counsel if only she asked. If only she possessed the courage to force the thought from her mind to her throat. Instead, she just stands and stares.

"Come," he says, never sparing her a glance.

* * *

Renji stares into the deep shadows that scatter across the Thirteenth's training field.

 _I really need to_ , he begins the thought, but, midway through, he shakes his head.

Sweat drips from his brow and soaks his hands.

_I must do this._

Tension crests over him before igniting over his body. Inch by inch and fiber by fiber he feels it. He feels a strange synchrony—one that he has never experienced before.

_Maybe this is it._

He hopes. He prays. For the first time, he realizes just how desperate he has become, just how desperate the situation has become.

 _I don't have much longer_.

He stares into his opponent's eyes. Yellow flames, red mask, white hair.

"There you are."

* * *

Bracing a shoulder against the wooden frame, Rukia stares out her door. The air hits sharp in the lungs, even sharper against the skin. Her lips pull to the side. It has been a long summer. So long, in fact, that it has bled into autumn. She wonders if the trees will ever bleed their colors. Oh, how she dreams of the burnt sienna and vermillion leaves! Anything to ward away the feeling of heat—a phantom fire with no flame to behold.

 _C'mon, Rukia, relax_ , she tells herself in a never-ending loop.

Just when she thinks she has it—her repose—it escapes. Her heart jumps, and her thoughts scatter and reform only to fixate on one consuming thought: What if Aizen returns? What will he do? Surely, he will come for her. For what purpose? To obtain some strange  _thing_? Was Renji right? Had he—

"Excuse me, milady," the steward murmurs as he peers into her room from the corridor. "I was chasing a draft. It appears that I have found it."

She smiles politely. "Forgive me."

He raises a hand as if to ward off her gentle apology. "No need, milady. It seems you have a little of the Lord in you."

Her smile widens. "Brother prefers the night, too?" She already knows the answer to the question, but she feels that she is slowly losing her sanity and wouldn't mind the distraction. Plus, Minamoto is a lovely storyteller when he isn't teasingly correcting her etiquette.

"Indeed," he says, bowing his head. "Ever since he met the Lady. He would wait on pins and needles with his eyes toward the sky, willing the sun down."

"Why?" Somewhere, the translation went awry. The signal got lost in what he assumes is a shared foundation.

"Oh, yes, of course." He shoots Rukia a sly grin. "Milady would not know as she is pure of virtue."

Rukia's eyes widen a little at this.  _Brother's wasn't pure of virtue? Did I just hear that properly?_  Well, things just took an unexpected turn—an  _exciting_  one.

Minamoto chuckles darkly at her surprise. "Oh, it was nothing  _too_  scandalous. I assure you. But, according to custom, it is improper for an unattached gentleman to visit an unattached lady  _alone_  during the day. For some reason or another—probably for the sake of everyone's sanity—busybodies turn a blind eye when night falls. In keeping with this custom, the Lord would visit the Lady as soon as the sun fell below the horizon. When the sun rose, the lovers were parted."

"How long did they," she pauses, and her eyes trail up to the ceiling as she contemplates her word choice.  _"Date"_  seems too… _uncouth_. Brother  _would not date_  someone. Then, there is an issue of Brother and Sister's relationship being a formalized and financially driven one. What sort of relationship does a courtesan have with her  _client_? Is there a word for it? Suddenly, she wishes she had paid more attention to the drunken conversations of the Eleventh.

"Court?" the steward offers with a fatherly stare.

"Yes,  _court_." Sounds good to her. Brother would definitely  _court_  someone. "How long did they  _court_?"

Minamoto's gaze flicks up as he counts the years in his head. "Ten years, perhaps. The Lord and Lady were wed when the Lord was 190 years of age—"

"Wait. What?"

The news slaps her across the face with the force of a wrecking ball. Brother was married when he was  _only_  190? Rukia's eye widen at the figure. She's almost 160. That's  _only_  30 years difference. Will the family expect her to settle down in 30 years? That seems…imprudent. Not to mention  _unlikely_  at the going rate.

"Yes, milady."

"Brother was 190 when he married Sister?" she repeats, heart hammering in her throat. Maybe she just misheard? What with the drumming noise in her ears, it's possible.

But, did the drumming sound come  _before_  or  _after_  she learned the age, though?

The steward nods his head. "An appropriate age, I think."

Clearly, Minamoto and she are of differing opinions.

"Yes, it must've been ten years of courtship. He was about 180 years old. Or was it 170?"

 _Not making it better_ , Rukia thinks bitterly to herself. If Brother was 170 when he found Sister, then she has only  _10 years_  to find a suitable mate. Is that  _even_  possible? No wonder the Konoe lord was inquiring after her. Despite her sister's good judgment, she  _isn't_ too young to entertain marriage proposals, apparently.

_Brother and Sister wouldn't just marry me off…to some stranger…would they?_

"Yes, you see, the Lord and Lady's union was quite unconventional. The Lord was promised to a lovely lady of proper title. He was to marry her at his bicentennial. 'So it is written, so it is done,' as they say. It took three meetings with the Lady, and milord was thunderstruck. He was most certain  _she_  would be his wife. No other woman would do."

Tearing herself away from thoughts of impending marriage, Rukia musters a small winsome smile. "The elders were not in favor of this union?" The poisonings were a tip off. You probably don't poison the people of whom you approve. Yet, nevertheless, Rukia can't help but wonder where the hell it all went so  _awry_.

"Marriage is many things, milady. It is a grave undertaking that must be carefully arranged, carefully decided, and the match is made without consultation or counsel of either bride or groom. Marriage is many things, milady, but it is not an arrangement forged in love."

"Brother loves Sister."

"Precisely."

_Apparently that was the problem._

Clearing his throat, the steward continues: "The elders did not care if he gave his heart to a courtesan. In fact, they were very pleased when Lord Kuchiki found a talented beauty to love and with whom he could find enjoyment. The relationship had tempered him, which was the desired outcome. I have no doubt the family would've insisted he maintain his patronage even while married."

"What?"

Wait a minute.

Come again.

Did the steward really just say that?  _And, mean it_?

Minamoto gives her a small paternal glance, as if she is but a mere pup, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed but utterly unprepared for the world. "Love, milady, is secondary. It is reserved for leisure. Marriage, however, is  _work_. It is a financial arrangement—one that is filled with many contractual  _obligations_. If a husband desires to pursue his prurient interests, he must find a secondary outlet, and, thusly, the courtesan class arose."

"So, because nobleman cannot marry for love, poor women are recruited for that purpose?"

How astounding.

How  _horrifying_.

_Sister's sole purpose—her entire lot in life—was to provide wealthy men sexual and romantic respite. How depressing for all parties involved._

"What of the noblewomen?" Suddenly, every alarm in her system begins to ring. She's  _technically_  a noblewoman now. Will social mores expect to submit to such an unfulfilling arrangement?

"Noblewomen find their love in the hearts of children, of course." Again, he regards her with a well-intentioned, but nevertheless,  _bemused_  stare.

"Brother did not like that arrangement," she says, mostly for her own benefit.

 _Good for him, and thank the gods!_  She, at least, has precedence for eschewing the  _old ways_ , and, perhaps, an understanding ear for later, if she finds someone to  _love_.

Minamoto's smile lengthens. "Lord Kuchiki's reaction to the ancient institution of marriage was not unlike your own. He abhorred the idea of romantic infidelity, and he could not betray the affection he felt so deeply for your Sister. So, after a protracted battle fraught with great heartache, Lord Kuchiki purchased the Lady's contract, and, against the express wishes of this family, they were wedded that spring."

Rukia tilts her head to the side. The flurry of thoughts go still, and all she has in her heart is a joy. A lazy smile curves her mouth, and she nods her head.  _How appropriate_ , she thinks to herself.  _Spring seems like such a nice time for unions_.

Her gaze flits to the garden, draped in blacks and blues.

_Maybe autumn, too._

* * *

Byakuya sits at his desk, distracted. He tries. He really does try, Hisana thinks to herself as she kisses the top of Shirofumi's head, the youngest by twenty minutes. Freshly fed, the boy's eyelids grow heavy, and his head begins to lull to the side.

When the last of the boy's resolve fades, Hisana tucks him into bed beside her. She then cradles Hakudoshi, readying the boy for his feeding. When he settles against her, her gaze returns to her husband, sitting stiffly at his desk. The morning rays paint him in such handsome shades of gold.

"How was Rukia's practice?" her voice is soft, barely louder than a whisper. It is not the question she wishes to ask, but it is the one that leaves her.

It is the easier of her questions.

"She performed admirably." There is a iciness in his voice that wounds her.

It takes Hisana a moment to regroup, to understand the meaning of her husband's laconic response. Usually, he is more open, warmer, with her. Not today. The emotional distance between them seems to lengthen with each breath. A chill sings through her, entering on her breath and traveling to her chest, where it rattles around.

Her lips slope into a frown, the burn of which pulls her focus from the piercing pang of rejection.

 _He is waiting_.

He is waiting for the question that buzzes inside her head and warms her throat, begging to be released. It is a dozy.

"Where did you go yesterday?" Her voice, low and measured, slices the air like a knife, slitting the tense quiet. It is the question that she has been meaning to ask. All afternoon. All evening. Now, all morning. Courage, however, eluded her worried mind until that very moment.

Nothing.

Silence fills in the gaps as soon as her words die in the air, a strangling sort of demise. Hisana, however, is not one for strangling sorts of demises. Instead, she presses on, "—after I gave you my decision regarding Captain Kyōraku's offer," she clarifies.

Her husband, astute and ever-perceptive, doesn't need  _clarification_. He knew the meaning of her question. The silence is only a byproduct of his careful mind. "It is nothing over which to concern yourself," he says, voice heavy and dark. There is a finality in his baritone. It falls over her like a blade through a neck, cutting off all other discourse.

Hisana, however, has not lost her head, and, as proof, she steels her tongue. Crestfallen, she holds back the deluge of words, knowing that, at this moment, words are not the cure. Instead, she lifts her head, and her brows pull together. Her heart aches at his reply. It is every bit her concern, especially since she has a hunch, and every bit of muscle burns to rip open the topic until they are both raw and weary from overthinking it. It takes every bit of her restraint to refuse the primal urge to dig into open wounds.

She presses her lips firmly together. So hard, in fact, that she tastes the metallic tang of blood. "I understand, Lord Byakuya." She forces out the words, even though her heart chills at their meaning. Hisana does not know how long she can or  _will_  abide these secrets. Not between them. No.

Byakuya turns his head to give her a sidelong glance. His look is quick. There are words trapped in that gray stare of his, she thinks. A great number of words are swirling around in his head, but her husband is a deliberate man. He picks and chooses his words with a heavy heart.

"I am required at the Sixth," he murmurs upon standing. Fitful glances reveal little but her husband's disquiet at how poorly he has handled this situation.

Politely, Hisana lowers her gaze and plants a sweet kiss on the top of her babe's head. Only the rustling of fabric against fabric fills the air as Byakuya dresses in his uniform. When he is finished, he pauses, and she feels the weight of his gaze settle over her. It is a tradition—an unspoken, unwritten tradition. He halts a hairsbreadth from the door, and he regards her one last time. It is a silly superstition, he knows, but the day never goes as well if he doesn't stop, if he doesn't give her that last parting glance before he leaves for the Sixth.

"Take care of the children," he murmurs. A longing note lingers heavy in the thick humid air. It is thin. It is quiet.

But, she hears it all the same, and she returns his look with a keen glance. Her expression is a knowing one. A private observation undulates in the depths of those deep violet eyes. Hints of a grin ghost across her lips, but she masters the temptation well. "You, too, Lord Byakuya."

Then, he realizes his wife's sights are set just behind him. Absently, his eyes wander to the garden, where he finds Rukia and Renji, standing a stone's throw away.

Rukia, likely catching the flicker of his darting gaze, throws an arm back and waves so hard her whole body sways. "We can all go together!"

He tries very hard to keep his features, which are set in rigid apathy, from breaking as he turns to his wife. The moment he sees the amusement dancing in her warm gaze, he dips his head down, and he smiles; it is the kind of smile that smoothes the features and draws color to the cheeks.

It is a rare moment, and Hisana is eager to take it in and to commit it to memory. The years—long, cold, and harsh—peel away, stripping him of usual veil of apathy, and, suddenly, she sees where her boys get their devious, boyish looks.

The glances they exchange may be wordless, but they are brimming with meaning.

Before Byakuya turns into the morning's golden haze, he stops short of the door, and, with a lingering gaze, he answers her the only way he knows how, with a suggestion. "Lord Kyōraku awaits your invitation for lunch."

Hisana's eyes widen. Her heart stops. She can hardly believe her husband's words, but, before she has the time to compose her thoughts, he is gone. Evaporated into the morning rays.

 _How very clever, milord_ , she thinks to herself. A satisfied grin thins her lips.

There is a certain beauty in exacting collateral.

She has no doubt that Captain Kyōraku will not be pleased at the news, even if he expects it, and Hisana has no doubt that Kyoraku  _expects_ it.

_Power vacuums make for strange bedfellows._


End file.
